


But all I wanted was You

by FuckShit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, Season/Series 06, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:34:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28920654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuckShit/pseuds/FuckShit
Summary: He dresses in too many layers, wears a warm-up underneath flannel, underneath a hoodie (old and worn, something they had bought before Hell was ever on their radar), all packed underneath a jacket. He also began to layer his pants, leggings underneath sweats underneath jeans, and his socks.On the days he wakes up with his voice caught in his throat and his limbs stuck to the bed, he wears a beanie (Stanford knitted onto the side) and some gloves they got from who knows where.He can’t remember when Sam stopped sweating.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester (mentioned)
Kudos: 2





	But all I wanted was You

The taste of dirt mixed with blood is a flavor he knows well.

Split lips and purple faces, he was all too familiar with them. The ache he felt in his shoulders after a long night with another layer added onto his callouses.

When she kisses him, he’s long since stopped feeling anything from them. Impatience clings to his bones, his feet tapping with an energy that courses through his blood. Covers what used to be the boiling of heat in his gut.

He doesn’t like research, doesn’t like the painstaking task of reading. The words printed on old leather-bound books, handed over by gruff concern and paternal worry. Words on worn out paper, with a grit he can feel.

He kissed Ben good-bye and never looked back, Lisa hanging at her doorstep with a false understanding in her posture. She could never understand this feeling – the tug at his being to go, and to find his other half. But oh, she tried, tried to understand what it felt like when you lose your entire religion, your reason of being.

And when he finds him? Everything slips back into place. The sky is blue, and the grass is green and- well, everything is perfect. Except, it isn’t.

It never seems to reach his eyes, smiles and frowns – simply put on to mimic some form of emotion. He knows this well, had to perfect his own false emotions.

He blames it on hell, he knew what the Rack did to him – so who knows what the Cage did to him.

If they’re a little closer, they never say anything about it.

Glances turn to stares and hands overstay their welcome.

He dresses in too many layers, wears a warm-up underneath flannel, underneath a hoodie (old and worn, something they had bought before Hell was ever on their radar), all packed underneath a jacket. Leggings hidden underneath his jeans, and socks that doubled up on each other. On the days he wakes up with his voice caught in his throat and his limbs stuck to the bed, he wears a beanie (Stanford knitted onto the side) and some gloves they got from who knows where.

He can’t remember when Sam stopped sweating. Only begins to notice it after a hunt in Arizona, the beginnings of Summer felt in the dry air of the desert. Under all those layers, he hadn’t broken a sweat.

And he’s concerned and he’s worried, but when those eyes finally light up? When that smile finally reach those kaleidoscope eyes? Well, it’s all too easy for him to push it to the back of his mind.


End file.
